


Fool for Love

by havisham



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: (by marriage), Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Banter, F/M, First Meetings, Misses Clause Challenge, Secret Relationship, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21939835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: “I hope he is not like Arthur,” Guinevere confessed to her sister, Lenomie, as they were hidden behind an ornately carved screen, overlooking the throne room. They watched the small figures of Gawain and Leodegrance, their father, speaking to each other. Gawain’s bright red hair helped distinguish him, even from a distance. Guinevere disliked it — it did not seem dignified to her.
Relationships: Gawain/Guinevere (Arthurian), Guinevere/Arthur Pendragon
Comments: 16
Kudos: 28
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Fool for Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RobberBaroness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobberBaroness/gifts).



> Hi RobberBaroness! Your Guinevere/Gawain prompt really captured my imagination, so I had to write you this. I had a lot of fun imagining how different things would turn out if this was a central romance in Arthurian legends. Everything is so different because the characters involved are so different. I also did not mean to give Lancelot a big role, it took me quite by surprise as I am a really big Gawain fan. Anyway, hope you like it. <3

Guinevere had always known she was not destined to marry for love. Her family and position did not call for it. Her sisters, not unkindly, would tease her about her romantic aspirations, but they all knew what was required of them. When she was told that she would marry Arthur, she accepted the suit with calmness, as if she was outside of herself. 

_I hope he is kind_ , she thought to herself. His reputation was that of a great leader and one who kindled the hearts of all who followed him. What he was like as a man had not gotten out. 

Arthur had been instrumental in defeating Rhince, the rival of Guinevere’s father, Leodegrance, and with that defeat, he had won Guinevere’s hand. Their marriage had been conducted by proxy years before Guinevere herself could come to Camelot. Those years had been strange for Guinevere, who could give herself all the airs of a married woman — and a queen at that — but no one who had known her from infancy on would indulge her in that. 

Instead, Guinevere thought mostly of Arthur. Her husband was busy conquering the fractious tribes and lords of his land, and Guinevere was busy growing and being trained to be the Queen. 

It was Arthur’s eldest nephew and his presumptive heir, Gawain, son of King Lot, who came to fetch Guinevere for her crowning. It was not an auspicious meeting — he had been delayed so long that the court feared that he had been slain, and that Arthur would have to dispatch another knight for Guinevere. But to lose his heir! How dreadfully ill-fated! Guinevere was in agonies the whole summer and early autumn, and her mood did not improve when Gawain did appear at her father’s court, with excuses of being waylaid by some fantastical adventure or another. 

“I hope he is not like Arthur,” Guinevere confessed to her sister, Lenomie, as they were hidden behind an ornately carved screen, overlooking the throne room. They watched the small figures of Gawain and Leodegrance, their father, speaking to each other. Gawain’s bright red hair helped distinguish him, even from a distance. Guinevere disliked it — it did not seem dignified to her. 

“What will you do if he is? Or if Arthur is more unpleasant?” Lenomie asked her. Guinevere sighed. The answer, of course, was that she could do nothing. Her hands were tied and hope was her only consolation. 

“Arthur is — he is supposed to be very good,” Guinevere said haltingly. 

“Gawain will know better than most,” said clever Lenomie. “When you are traveling with him to Camelot, take care to get as much intelligence from him as possible. Of course, be aware — he may not like chattering women!” 

“Tush,” Guinevere said. “You sound like our father. If a woman has no thoughts in her head worth listening to!” 

“Too bad Arthur didn’t send Lancelot — the best knight in all Camelot,” said Lenomie. 

“I don’t mind that,” Guinevere said quickly. If Gawain would prove to be difficult to know, she could not imagine what Lancelot, who had been fighting with Arthur since the beginning, would be like.

When Guinevere was introduced to Gawain, she found that her tongue seemed to dry up in her head and she could only smile at the introductions. She did not want to seem over-proud, but her shyness made her inscrutable. 

Gawain was a man of pleasant, if frank, manners. He did not seem to mind Guinevere’s silences; they were not much in each other’s company as the preparations were being made to bring Guinevere, and the great round table — Leodegrance’s wedding present for both her and Arthur — to Camelot. 

Their party was slow and burdened with many other gifts, as they made their way to Camelot. Guinevere rode up front, disdaining the silk-covered palanquin that had been brought for her. Gawain rode next to her, but he did not often speak to her, which was a source of consternation. Why indeed did Gawain have such a reputation for chivalry when he was rude to her? 

“Sir Gawain,” Guinevere said one day, her voice as bright as a summer’s day, “you are far more dour than I had been led to expect. Your reputation is that of knight most chivalrous and beloved among the ladies of the realm.” 

Gawain looked over at her, his grey eyes narrow. “I am sorry to be a disappointment, Queen Guinevere. Though I cannot say if my reputation is well-earned. Love is a strange beast, isn’t it?” 

“Oh! You are philosophical and wise,” Guinevere said. “That I had not expected.” 

“Indeed no,” Gawain replied. “If you ask any knight in Camelot, I would not be the first or twentieth to be called philosophical or wise. Not even my uncle, who is inclined to be as kind as possible, would call me thoughtful.” 

“Is Arthur thoughtful?” Guinevere asked eagerly. Gawain seemed to consider this. 

“I think he is far cannier than most would give him credit for. My uncle is no fool.” 

“I should hope not,” Guinevere said quickly. She felt as if Gawain was criticizing her, however obscurely. “There is far too much riding on his shoulders for aught else.” 

“As you say, madame,” said Gawain. Guinevere huffed in frustration. Even when he agreed with her, it did not feel like he did. 

*

There was a dead man on the road to Camelot. The caravan ground to a stop to have the corpse removed, and it was then they were attacked. At first, Guinevere assumed that the attack was an attempted abduction, but from the rough-hewn garb of the brigands, it seemed more likely that the caravan’s apparent wealth was the reason for the attack, rather than the value of the travelers. 

She was able to see Gawain’s prowess in battle at close quarters, even as she was pulled away to shelter behind the trees. He was fast and he was deadly, and soon enough there were no more brigands to fight against him. 

Carefully, Guinevere picked through the debris to come to him. He looked up and Guinevere saw that a knife had slashed across his cheek. Without thinking, she pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the blood away. He winced and she asked, concerned, if it hurt him. 

“Not all,” he said. “It is only a bother that I have ruined your fine handkerchief.” 

“Oh!” Guinevere said, feeling her cheeks grow hot. “You are foolish!” 

“I have never said I was not,” Gawain pointed out. He tried to return Guinevere’s handkerchief and their hands brushing against each other for one, fraught moment. She told him to keep it. He then pressed it against his face. 

“I would rather lose a handkerchief than a fine knight such as yourself,” Guinevere said. “Thank you.” 

“I am only doing my duty, my queen.” 

“Of course,” Guinevere said. It was her turn to look away — the weight of Gawain’s gaze was far too much for her. 

*

It was night and their party had taken shelter under a grove of ancient oaks. The rain poured down on them, defying all attempts to keep dry. Guinevere shivered, though she was wrapped in a heavy cloak. The bonfire was a paltry thing, though the pages and squires fed it faithfully. Guinevere thought of retiring to her tent, but she did not want everyone to think that she would wilt under a sprinkle of rain. 

So she leaned closer to the fire and looked over to Gawain, who did not seem particularly bothered by the rain. At her raised brow, he shrugged. “I was raised in Orkney. There, the rain lashes against the rock of the castle, everyday. This is but a drip.” 

“If you had not delayed so, we would have avoided even this mere dewfall,” Guinevere said drily, as the bonfire retreated even more. 

“One cannot avoid adventures such as that,” Gawain told her. “Despite all efforts, one will be challenged by some odious knight and be drawn to some strange magical trap. I am lucky that I escaped with both my virtue and my handsome face.” 

“Oh? Your virtue was in danger?” Guinevere said, smiling. 

“There are many very relieved lords and petty kings who would suggest a marriage between their lovely daughters and a passing knight who has done them a great service. I am yet unmarried, but many of my fellows…” 

“Sir Gawain, are you suggesting that many knights have commited the sin of bigamy?” Guinevere lowered her voice and said, “Surely Arthur cannot approve of such things.” 

“No, my uncle has always been an example of what is right and proper. I have always tried to model myself after him, though there is no love lost between our side of the family and his. But the cause of the estrangement was not his doing — it is no child’s fault for being born.” 

Guinevere sobered. She had heard the circumstances of Arthur’s birth, but could not quite believe. How terrible a realization had Queen Igraine had, when she was told that her husband had been slain, though she had lain with him that night? 

“Does your mother dislike that you have sworn to follow him? Pardon me if that is too imprudent a question.” 

Gawain grinned at her. “I do not mind your questions. You are about to be thrown into a lion’s den — the more you know, the longer you will be able to survive, and indeed, thrive. No, my mother, Morgause, was not best pleased by my defection. But she is a queen, and she would not dislike it if her son eventually becomes king of a greater land than hers.” 

“Then she would rather Arthur stay childless.” 

Gawain hesitated. “Arthur has no child that can inherit his throne, that is true. But as for myself, I have no desire to be king — either of Orkney or Camelot. You do not need to believe me, but I am devoted to Arthur’s cause.” 

“That’s an interesting distinction you made,” Guinevere said. “That he has no child who can inherit.” Before she could finish her thought, she sneezed. Gawain told her that she would have to return to her tent. 

“If you die of a cold before we reach Camelot, it will not matter if I am the king’s nephew or not. My life would be forfeit.” 

“Nonsense,” Guinevere said, between sneezes. “Arthur would find another wife.” 

“But he would never find another Guinevere.” 

*

They were within sight of Camelot, but it seemed like a distant mountain-range in the early morning light. Guinevere’s eyes were not sharp enough to distinguish the proud banners or pennants that must be flying over the dream-like spires and towers, but even so, she felt a sudden, sickening fear. 

“Gawain,” she said softly, so none but he could hear her. “Tell me truly — is he kind? Is he good? Will he love me?” 

“Yes,” Gawain said. “He is all that you have heard and more. But you will love him more than he can love you, for his chief love lies in Camelot itself.” 

Guinevere looked at him and he looked back, as steady as the sun that shone above them. “Do you think I will shrink from being loved less than a country, even as an abstraction? I was born to be a queen, I know what is expected of me.” 

Gawain bowed his head. “You are a queen indeed. And he is the king. There can be no one else worthy of the two of you.” 

Despite his words, Guinevere’s fear persisted as Camelot came closer and closer, and finally it became real enough to enter. 

*

Arthur waited for her on the marble steps to the cathedral, as Guinevere came up to meet him while fat flakes of snow sprinkled down on them. He was handsome and weathered but fair, and when he smiled, there were creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Guinevere could immediately feel the pull from him that Gawain had told her about. She wanted nothing more than to love him, to please him and to have him love her in return. 

When he took her hand, it was as if something jolted between them. Guinevere looked at him in wonder as they moved into the darker space inside, where the voices of the court echoed against the stone. Guinevere glanced backward to see the lone figure of Gawain watch them go inside. 

“It has been a long wait, Guinevere,” said Arthur quietly, and Guinevere’s attention snapped back to him. “Do you wish to continue?” 

Their steps brought them closer and closer to the altar. Guinevere said slowly, “If I said no, what would you do?” 

“I would let you return to your father’s house with all appropriate honors. I would not have an unwilling wife.” 

“I am not unwilling,” Guinevere said, looking straight forward. “It is my only wish that I will serve you well and make a good wife for you and a good queen for Camelot.” 

Arthur looked at her. His eyes were more grey than blue, like a storm-tossed sea. “I wish so much that we could simply be man and wife. But there is much that I will ask from you, much more than one of a wife.”

“I accept it gladly, my lord.”

He smiled at her. It was as if she was bathed in light. “You will do well.”

They had come to the altar and were soon wed in truth as well as by ceremony. And later, Guinevere knelt down and was crowned the queen of Camelot. Afterwards, with Arthur’s help, she rose and looked upon her new subjects with a shaky smile. They were all strangers to her — save the bright spot of Gawain, who waved at her cheerfully.

In her happiness and relief, Guinevere hardly noticed a dark presence that was near her. She marked only his strong resemblance to Arthur, though he did not smile as Arthur did. She was told later that this was Mordred, Gawain’s brother and Arthur’s nephew.

Mordred looked upon her like she was poison. She did not understand his hostility until much later.

*

Arthur understood Guinevere’s nervousness and anxiety about their wedding and told her frankly that she did not need to worry — her virginity would stay intact until such time that she chose to lose it. He would not allow anyone access to the royal bedchamber, to see if there was blood on the sheets. That was not how they did things in Camelot.

“But I would not mind if you were to —” Guinevere said, her face flaming. “I am very prepared for it.”

“Ah,” Arthur said, kissing her forehead. “Perhaps then you are prepared, but I am not. Then, would you excuse me if I should not take you?”

“Of course … not,” Guinevere said. She felt out of her depth. Was she not as beautiful as Arthur expected? Did he not feel any sort of desire for her? A thousand worries rushed to her, but she voiced not one. 

Instead, Arthur drew her into a conversation about her life and childhood, and she found herself telling him everything that she could about herself. He spoke too, but only to draw more and more from her. At the end of the night, Guinevere felt as if he had known her for her entire life, and when he kissed her sweetly and bid her goodnight, she felt blessed.

It was only later, as she lay awake, listening to his even breathing beside her, that she realized their long, wonderful conversation had given her little knowledge of her new husband at all.

*

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of activity. Guinevere met all the knights in Camelot — proud and irritable Kay, Arthur’s foster brother and his steward, kindly Belvedere, and Gawain again, this time flanked by his numerous brothers. Mordred stood apart from them and seemed to take no notice of Gawain’s injunction to greet the new queen as courteously as possible. Guinevere wondered at his daring — Mordred was not much older than herself, but he was incredibly self-willed and no one seemed to gainsay him, save Gawain only.

Mordred’s eyes were sharp and his voice was precise, like a well-honed knife. “You are my uncle’s choice, though the King of France had offered him his daughter and a mountain of gold. But your father’s gift of a symbolic table was more tempting.”

“My father and Arthur see eye-to-eye on the table,” said Guinevere. “It is round so that all who sit at it will be equal — none will be the head of it.”

“And yet that is not true,” said Mordred, his voice strangely monotone. “Surely Arthur would be the head, no matter what the shape of the table.”

“You seem to be taking this very literally,” Guinevere said, a little flustered. “All else under Arthur are equal.”

“Ah yes, under Arthur indeed.”

“Mordred,” Gawain said sharply, coming upon them. “You are monopolizing our good queen’s time. She has many other people to meet, so give her a pretty farewell and let her go.”

Mordred gave his brother a low, mocking bow and did the same for Guinevere. When he left her, she sighed a little in relief. Her hopes that no one had heard her were immediately dashed when Gawain said, in a whisper, “Please forgive my younger brother. He has never learned to govern his emotions like the rest of us — there was no need for it, he was my mother’s favorite.” 

Guinevere looked at him narrowly. “Sir Mordred hinted something about Arthur — some great secret. I wonder what it is.”

“It is not mine to tell,” Gawain began to say — but then he seemed to give in to one of his quicksilver moods. “But by God, all but you know it. You are at a disadvantage in your ignorance. Mordred is Arthur’s son, though it is unacknowledged.”

“He is —” Guinevere swallowed hard. “He was fostered by your parents? That is why you call him your brother?”

“I call him my brother because he is my brother. Don’t judge Arthur too harshly. He was very young when he met my mother and he did not fully know their connection.”

“I did not ask you to defend him,” Guinevere said sharply. Her mind felt as if it was on fire. What Gawain told her was at odds with all that she knew or had experienced with Arthur. “Please go away, I do not want to speak to you.”

Gawain left her without another word.

*

There was another knight, who came late to the wedding feast, half leaning on Gawain’s shoulder before he staggered away. He was more Arthur’s age, almost stooped with weariness. It did not seem that he had done anything more to make himself presentable for the feast than wiping his face with a wet rag.

Was he drunk already? Guinevere frowned and tried to catch Gawain’s eye. Why had he brought a sot to such an occasion? But Gawain had turned away and the stranger come up to the dais where Guinevere and Arthur were sitting, he leaned over and tapped on the table in front of Arthur.

He was not drunk at all, she saw, but treading on the very edge of exhaustion. “So you’ve done it, finally,” said the strange knight. Arthur rewarded him with a bright smile that lit up his face.

“Don’t be rude, Lance. Introduce yourself to Guinevere.”

The man looked over to her. His eyes were dark and his expression strange. When he smiled, it looked more like a grimace. “Guinevere, whose face is like a flower. Good evening, my name is Lancelot.”

“Good to meet you, Lancelot. I have heard so much about you but never seen your face. But you are my husband’s most beloved and favored knight.”

“I am surprised he would say so — without causing offense to our northern cousins.”

“Gawain only considers you a yardstick to measure himself by,” Arthur said relaxedly. “If you are fishing for more praise, then I won’t give it to you.”

Guinevere smiled, unsure what to say. Lancelot only grunted and kissed her hand — it felt whiskery and his lips were dry — and left again. His steps were unsteady and he stopped suddenly, colliding with Kay. Kay’s scolding was brought up short by a gush of blood that issued forth from Lancelot’s mouth. Arthur sprang from his chair, and a knot of people surrounded him. It was obvious that Lancelot was gravely injured.

And yet he had come to the wedding feast anyway. Guinevere could not understand it, though as she watched her husband chide Lancelot as the other was being patched up by a surgeon, she thought perhaps Lancelot, too, felt the powerful draw that Arthur seemed to put forth — and was just as helpless to follow it.

*

Iseult’s white, slim hands made short work of unbraiding Guinevere’s heavy braids. Guinevere closed her eyes and let her handmaiden’s soft but persistent voice follow her into semi-sleep. Iseult was prone to talk, of which Guinevere was glad — the more information she received about this court, the better. 

“... And then Morgaine refused to come to Camelot again, for she was insulted by the lack of courtesy that she received. I don’t think she is as bad as the others say, but she is very self-willed. It is like she doesn’t have to abide by the rules that other women are bound to.” 

“How lucky she is,” Guinevere said softly. She had never met Arthur’s fearsome sister and was not sure she truly wanted to. “She is a queen in her own right, and commands her own magic.”

“Yes, but the rest of us have no enchantments except our beauty, which fades.” 

Guinevere gave Iseult a sly glance. “You are melancholy tonight, my dear.” 

Iseult smiled. “I am sorry, my queen. I just received a letter from my husband… Oh, my dear Guinevere, you are so lucky to have married Arthur! He does not harry you like my husband does me, I’m sure.”

Guinevere felt a touch of panic brush against her neck. “Does everyone think that Arthur and I —”

“I don’t mean _that_ ,” said Iseult hurriedly. “No one would ever dare to presume anything… Oh! I have heard that Gawain is feuding with Kay for treating his youngest brother so poorly. But there are so many of them, I cannot think how he keeps them straight …”

“I suppose,” Guinevere said, not attending. She looked forward, eyeing the mirror in front of her. She seemed different than she had been at home. The last few months had wrought a definite change upon her. She didn’t know if it was for good or ill. No longer was she the dreaming girl who had been so full of feelings and apprehensions. Now she knew exactly what there was to fear.

When she dismissed Iseult for the night, Guinevere’s thoughts were aflame. She did not know if Arthur would even come to her bed — most nights, he did not. She thought of sending for him, but she did not know where he spent his nights when he was not with her.

A soft knock on her door interrupted her thoughts. The door opened — it was Arthur, there to bid her a good night.

“Husband, please stay with me tonight, I am so lonely without you,” Guinevere said, trying to keep her voice as light and teasing as possible.

“Are you sure?” Arthur did not look entirely surprised by her request, but he also seemed a touch apprehensive.

“Very,” Guinevere said drily. “Please relieve me of my blasted virginity so the rest of the court will not hound me about it.”

“That I can do,” Arthur assured her. 

He was gentle and sweet, but there was neither passion on his side nor much satisfaction on hers. After it was over, Guinevere wondered if she should ask him about Mordred, but looking at his peaceful, sleeping face, she could not do it.

*

It was three years after Guinevere had come to Camelot that a Christmas feast was interrupted by an unearthly knight, dressed in green and crowned in holly. Gawain stepped forward to accept his challenge. When the ghostly presence had vacated the hall, taking the Christmas spirit with him, the party dispersed quickly. Gawain was dragged into a small, hot antechamber off the throne room and surrounded by Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot. 

Guinevere was quiet at first, listening to Arthur’s advice to Gawain, on what to do on such quests. But finally, she couldn't take it anymore. 

“Why are we ignoring the simple truth of the matter?” she said. “This is clearly a trap meant to slay Gawain. He should not go — he owes a strange ghost nothing.” 

“Of course it is a trap,” Gawain replied. “But I gave my word to obey his request and so I will.” 

“Even though he is clearly magic — surely, nothing you can do will harm him!” 

“Guinevere,” Arthur said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Gawain has chosen to accept the Green Knight’s challenge. Nothing we say will gainsay him.” 

“If you told him not to go, he would obey you. He is your heir.” 

“Do not grieve for me prematurely, dear aunt,” said Gawain cheerfully. “Perhaps when I return, I will no longer be the heir.” 

Guinevere sighed aloud, and Lancelot, who had said nothing all the while, cuffed Gawain’s ear. 

A year passed thus, and then Gawain went on his quest and he did not come back. Arthur too was called away, and Guinevere wondered if this was to be her future. She sewed with Iseult and argued with Kay about the upkeep of the castle. The days went by slowly and painfully. 

When Arthur returned, he was accompanied by Gaheris, Gawain’s younger brother. Gaheris was but a pale shadow of Gawain, but that was not his fault. Mordred too came back to Camelot, and expressed the common thought that his brother was dead and Arthur was at fault for encouraging him. He did not get as many reprimands as he usually did. 

After Christmas, after Epiphany, Gawain came back to court, a shade of his former self. The story he shared was strange and opaque, of reciprocal challenges made to him by both the Green Knight and his lady. Despite their best efforts, Gawain had bested them and prevailed, coming away with a rare treasure and experience that had stripped him of some of his youthful cheer. 

“So you played false with the lady and kept the girdle?” said Kay, with a shrewd look in his eye.

“He won it by his prowess and cleverness,” Arthur said, clapping Gawain on his back. “I am proud of you, Gawain.”

“Surely we see before us the best knight of the Round Table,” Guinevere said, her voice sounding high and insincere even to her own ears. But none disagreed with her. Gawain was toasted and feted, and Guinevere thought she might have been the only one to notice the thin line across his nape, where the Green Knight's ax had skimmed over it, as close as a lover’s lips.

Gawain was ill for many days after his return to Camelot. Guinevere would pay him regular visits, on behalf of both Arthur and herself, but often Gawain was not sensible enough to receive her. Finally, one day closer to spring than winter, she came to him and he was well.

“Aunt Guinevere,” he said with mischief in his eyes. “You have paid me such a compliment by your attendance at my bedside, and yet I have not thanked you until now.”

“Hush, you fool,” Guinevere said, and bent down and kissed him. He kissed her back eagerly, his hand straying into her dark hair. 

*

How strange it was, how terrifying to have a lover. Guinevere had never thought that she would be the kind of woman to take a lover, no matter how dissatisfied she was with her marriage. And with Gawain too, who seemed allergic to lying! And yet, he pledged to her faithfully that he would have no other love unless it was she and he would never betray her. 

“No, you cannot swear not to marry,” Guinevere said firmly. “You have an obligation to Arthur and to your family to do so. Is that not the point of us — to propagate?” She pressed a hand on her flat stomach and smiled a thin smile.

Gawain kissed the hand and kissed the stomach. “I will have none but you. I have loved you from the first time I saw you, when you were so disappointed that I was sent to fetch you, rather than Lancelot.”

“Did you truly think that?” Guinevere said, surprised. “I had no thought of Lancelot until I met him, and rarely have I thought of him since. He is a cold man.”

“Not so cold — he is devoted to Arthur and no one else can touch his heart. But what a heart it is!”

“Do I have a rival in Lancelot?” Guinevere said teasingly.

“Not on my behalf,” Gawain promised her. 

“This does not please me as much as you think it does,” Guinevere replied with a sigh, and Gawain rushed to assure her more completely. 

*

Guinevere poked Meliagant’s prone body with her foot. She had never hated a person more completely than Meliagant, the disgusting fool who had abducted her from a perfectly wonderful May Day celebration and subjected her to interminable hours of listening to his poetry, while they waited for Arthur to ransom her. He did not believe her when she said that Arthur would not do so, and now he was dead. 

Gawain appeared from the dark of the tower and Guinevere rushed to him and kissed him. “Guinevere,” he said warmly, before she heard a step behind him. Lancelot graced them both with a sardonic smile. 

“What a display of auntly affection,” he said, and Guinevere laughed. 

“What do you know of affection, Lancelot?” 

“Nothing that a pair of young lovers would not show me,” Lancelot returned. 

“Lancelot, this is not as you would assume,” Gawain said hastily, letting his arm drop from Guinevere’s waist a little too late. Guinevere stiffened her spine and looked at him straight. But Lancelot was not interested in them any longer. The danger was cleared and his attention would not hold in one place. 

“It is not my business,” he said before he rode away. “But if you must, you should speak to Arthur about it. He would not condemn you wholly, I think. Your family seems to have a history of such incidents.” 

“Thank you for your assistance today,” Gawain said, smiling. “But kindly fuck off.” 

Lancelot gave him a lazy wave and rode off. 

Guinevere and Gawain lingered in the tower, now stripped bare of most luxuries. Meliagant’s magic had brought him power, but no friends. Gawain dug his grave himself, and Guinevere used the last of the fruit and wine to fashion them a rough sort of supper. 

During the night, the starlight could be seen from the hole in the roof of the tower. Guinevere looked upward for a moment before she turned her attention back to Gawain, who had laid his head on her lap. “I think you should get married, dear boy.” 

“Is that your true desire?” Gawain asked her. He took out a handkerchief — she recognized it easily enough as the one she had given him so long ago — and offered it to her. 

“Of course, I wish to see you happy.” Guinevere frowned a little. She was _not_ crying.

“Liar,” Gawain said. “Will you not be straight with me, as I have always been with you?” 

“Fine then, have my honesty. You should not linger by my side. I do not think Lancelot will betray us, but what about everyone else? Your brothers — Mordred? You would be better protected if you were married, and happier too.” 

“Noble Guinevere!” 

“Foolish Gawain,” she replied and kissed him. 

*

Guinevere met Lady Ragnelle with a smile and a kiss upon her cheek. “Welcome to Camelot, my dear,” she said. “We have all longed to make your acquaintance.” 

“Thank you, your highness,” said Ragnelle, a little flustered. “I did not expect such a welcome.” 

“Why not? We are kin now,” Guinevere said warmly. “When I heard your story, I could not help but laugh, it was so — I don’t know how to describe it. I would — truly — not mind such a curse being laid upon me.” 

“I did not mind it at first either,” Ragnelle told her. “But soon it became wearisome. I began to doubt the attractiveness of my personality.” 

“And yet Gawain saw through it! Or blundered into it — sometimes it is an open question which way he goes.” 

“He is very fond of you,” Ragnelle said. “You were ever on his lips when he was describing Camelot — you are the first jewel in its crown.” 

“I am very fond of him, but he does tend to exaggerate,” Guinevere replied and took Ragnelle’s hand. “Shall we see how he fares in the tournament?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta, Nonnel! 
> 
> [Title from Lord Huron](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cvoJ7qUh3y8). 
> 
> As I was writing this, it came to me once again that in the end, it doesn't really matter who Guinevere's knightly lover is -- Gawain, Lancelot, Bedawyr (shouts to Rosemary Sutcliff, _Sword at Sunset_ ) -- the seeds of Camelot's destruction was always contained in the relationship between Mordred and Arthur. But you know ... the Western canon ... Never miss a chance to blame a woman for everyone's misfortune. 
> 
> Well, anyway. I really enjoyed writing this.


End file.
